ONE

A Pedigree Calf

Maigret had only a faint idea of what it was all about when he arrived one May afternoon in Delfzijl, a small town squatting on the low coast in the extreme northeast of the Netherlands.

A certain Jean Duclos, a professor at the University of Nancy, had been on a lecture tour through the countries of northern Europe. At Delfzijl he had been the guest of Monsieur Popinga, who was a teacher on the training ship there, and this Monsieur Popinga had been murdered. Though the French professor could hardly have been called a suspect, he had nevertheless been requested not to leave the town, and to hold himself at the disposal of the police.

That was about all Maigret knew, except for a rather confused report Jean Duclos had forwarded to the Paris police himself. He had at once informed the University of Nancy, whose authorities had then asked for a member of the Police Judiciaire to be sent to the spot.

It was just the job for Maigret, being semiofficial.

He had made it all the less formal by having taken no steps to warn the Dutch police that he was coming.

At the end of Jean Duclos’s report was a list of the principal people involved, and it was this list that Maigret had been studying during the last half hour of his journey:

CONRAD POPINGA , the victim, forty-two, formerly a captain in the merchant service, now teaching cadets on the training ship at Delfzijl. Married. No children. Spoke English and German fluently, and fairly good French.

LIESBETH POPINGA , his wife. Daughter of the headmaster of a lycée in Amsterdam, a woman of considerable culture, including a thorough knowledge of French.

ANY VAN ELST , the latter’s younger sister, on a visit of some weeks in Delfzijl, recently completed her degree in law. Twenty-five years old. Understands a good deal of French, but speaks it badly.

THE WIENANDS , living next door. Carl W. teaches mathematics on the training ship. Wife and two children. No French.

BEETJE LIEWENS , eighteen, daughter of a farmer who breeds pedigree cows. Has twice been to Paris. French quite good.

The names conveyed nothing to Maigret. He had been traveling for a night and half a day and wasn’t feeling particularly enthusiastic.

Right from the start, he found Delfzijl disconcerting. At dawn he had found himself rolling through the traditional Holland of tulips. Then came Amsterdam, which he already knew. But Drenthe, an endless stretch of heather, had taken him by surprise. A twenty-mile horizon sectioned by canals.

And what he now came to was something that bore no relation to the ordinary picture postcard of Holland. It was far more Nordic than anything he had imagined.

A small town. At the most, ten or fifteen streets paved with beautiful red tiles, as regularly laid as those of a kitchen floor. Low houses of brick, ornamented with a profusion of carved woodwork painted in cheerful colors.

The whole place was like a toy, all the more so because it was completely encircled by a dike. In this dike were openings with heavy lock gates, which were no doubt closed during spring tides.

Beyond was the estuary of the Ems River, and then the North Sea, a long silver ribbon of water. Ships were unloading their cargoes under the cranes on the quay. In the canals were innumerable sailing boats, big as barges and as heavy, built to withstand the open seas.

The sun shone brightly. The stationmaster was wearing a bright orange cap, to which he automatically raised his hand to salute the unknown passenger.

There was a café opposite. Maigret went in. But he hardly dared sit down. Not only was it scrubbed and polished like the most respectable of dining rooms, but also the atmosphere was equally homelike.

There was only one table, on which lay all the morning papers, fixed to wire frames. The proprietor, who was having a glass of beer with two customers, came over to welcome the newcomer.

“Do you speak French?” asked Maigret.

The proprietor shook his head, with a touch of embarrassment.

“Donnez-moi de la bière…Bier!”

Having sat down, he once more scanned Professor Duclos’s list. Somehow the last name seemed to him the most hopeful. He showed it to the proprietor, and two or three times pronounced the name:

“Liewens.”

The three men began talking together. Then one of them stood up, a huge fellow wearing a fisherman’s cap, who beckoned Maigret to follow. The inspector had not yet provided himself with Dutch money. When he offered a hundred-franc note, the proprietor waved it aside.

“Morgen!…Morgen!”

Tomorrow! So he’d have to come back!…

Yes, the atmosphere was certainly one of intimacy; it was all so simple and candid. Without a word, Maigret’s guide led him through the streets of the little town. On the left, a large shed was full of old anchors, rope, lengths of cable, buoys, compasses. Gear was even spread out along the street. Farther on, a sailmaker was working on his doorstep. A confectioner’s window exhibited a great choice of chocolates and complicated sweetmeats.

“Speak English?”

Maigret shook his head.

“Deutsch?”

Maigret shook his head again, at which the man relapsed into silence.

At the end of the street, open country began: green meadows; a canal, most of whose surface was broken by floating tree trunks from northern countries waiting to be towed to their various destinations inland.

In the distance, a long roof of glazed tiles.

“Liewens!” said the man, pointing to it. “Dag, mijnheer!”

Maigret went on alone after doing his best to thank his guide, who had come nearly a quarter of an hour’s walk to do a perfect stranger a good turn.

The sky was clear, the air extraordinarily limpid. The inspector skirted a lumberyard in which piles of oak, mahogany, and teak rose high as the houses.

There was a boat moored to the bank, children playing close by. Then nothing for more than half a mile but logs in the canal, white fences around fields where, here and there, magnificent cows were grazing. Then Liewens’ farm.

And here was something else Maigret hadn’t bargained for. The word “farm” had a different meaning here from the one he was accustomed to. For him the word had always implied a thatched roof, a manure heap, the clucking of hens and cackle of geese.

The one he now came to was a fine new building surrounded by a large garden full of blooming flowers. Everything was trim and peaceful. On the canal opposite the house, a graceful mahogany rowing dinghy. By the gate, a woman’s bicycle, nickel-plated.

He looked in vain for a bell; he called, but got no answer. A dog began barking.

To the left of the house was a long building with regularly spaced windows, which, however, had no curtains. It could have been taken for a shed had it not been so spick and span, and so obviously painted with an eye to the effect of its color.

The sound of mooing came from within, and Maigret, walking around some flower beds, found himself looking through a wide-open door.

The building was in fact a cowshed, though clean as any house. Red tiles everywhere gave a warm glow and even a feeling of sumptuousness. Gutters provided drainage. An ingenious mechanism controlled the fodder in the mangers. A pulley at the back of each stall—whose use Maigret found out only later—held up the cows’ tails during milking to prevent dirt from being flicked into the pail.

The light inside was dim. All the cows were out except for one lying on its side in the first stall.

A young girl came up and began speaking to him in Dutch.

“Mademoiselle Liewens?”

“Yes…Are you French?”

While she spoke she looked toward the cow. There was something a little ironical about her smile, which Maigret did not understand right away.

Another thing that clashed with his preconceived ideas was that Beetje Liewens wore black rubber boots more like riding boots.

She was wearing a green silk dress, though it was almost entirely concealed by a white smock like that of a hospital nurse.

A ruddy face, perhaps too ruddy. A healthy sunny smile, which lacked subtlety. Big china-blue eyes and red hair.

At first she seemed to have some difficulty finding her words in French, but she soon got into her stride.

“Did you want to speak to my father?”

“No. To you.”

She nearly burst out laughing.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me…My father’s gone to Groningen and he won’t be back until evening. Our two men are at the canal, fetching a load of coal. And the maid’s out shopping…And this is the moment this wretched cow has chosen to have her calf. We weren’t expecting it at all, or I’d never have been left alone.”

She was leaning against a windlass, which she had ready in case it was needed to assist in the calf’s delivery.

Outside, the sun was shining brightly, reflected by her boots, which glistened in the dim light as though varnished. She had plump pink hands, the nails of which were carefully manicured.

“It’s about Conrad Popinga…” began Maigret.

But she frowned. The cow had painfully scrambled to its feet and then sunk to the ground again.

“Here we are!…Would you like to help me?”

She snatched up the rubber gloves lying ready.

Thus Maigret began his investigation by aiding a purebred Frisian calf to come into the world—or, rather, by acting as assistant to this capable girl, whose easy movements showed her well versed in this work of the farm.

Half an hour later he and Beetje were bending over a copper tap lathering their hands and arms right up to the elbow.

“I daresay this is the first time you’ve put your hand to that job.”

“It is.”

She was eighteen years old. At least that’s what Duclos had said. When she took off her white smock, her silk dress outlined a rounded figure. Perhaps the sunshine was showing her off to advantage, but she certainly seemed the kind of girl to turn a man’s head.

“Come in. We can talk over a cup of tea. The maid’s back.”

The living room was austere, a little somber, but elegant and comfortable. The glass of the small win-dowpanes was faintly tinted, another detail new to Maigret.

A bookcase full of numerous works on cattle-breeding, handbooks of veterinary surgery. On the walls, gold medals and certificates that had been won in international shows.

And among the books the latest works of Claudel, André Gide, and Valéry.

Beetje’s smile was coquettish.

“Would you like to see my room?”

She watched him closely for the impression it made on him. There was no bed, in the ordinary sense of the word, but a divan covered with blue velvet. The walls were covered with toile de Jouy. Bookshelves with more books. A doll that had been bought in Paris, all frills and furbelows.

It could almost have been called a boudoir, though it was a little heavy, ponderous for that.

“Quite like Paris, isn’t it?”

“Tell me what happened last week.”

Beetje’s face clouded, though not very much—not enough to give the impression that she took the event very seriously.

No, it certainly was not weighing on her mind. Otherwise she would hardly have shown her room so proudly.

“You’ll have some tea, won’t you?”

They sat opposite each other. Between them the teapot, covered by a cozy.

Beetje still had to grope for a word now and again. In fact, she did more than grope. She fetched a dictionary, and sometimes there were long pauses while she looked for the exact expression she wanted.

A boat with a large gray sail glided slowly by on the canal. There was hardly any wind, so she was being punted along, threading her way through the logs that partially blocked the waterway.

“You haven’t yet been to the Popingas’?”

“I arrived only an hour ago, and so far my time has been devoted to cattle-breeding.”

“Ah, yes…Conrad was a charming man, really very charming…He’d spent many years at sea, and been to every country. Soon after he got his master’s license, he married. It was for his wife’s sake that he gave up the sea and accepted a post on the training ship. Rather dull…At first he had a fair-size boat, but Madame Popinga was frightened of the water, and in the end he sold it…Since then he’s only had a little boat on the canal…Did you see mine as you came?…His is practically identical…In the evenings he used to give private lessons to some of his pupils. He worked very hard.”

“What was he like?”

She didn’t understand at once. Then she went and got a photograph. It showed a tall, round-faced man, with pale clear eyes and closely cropped hair. He looked the picture of good health and good nature.

“That’s Conrad. You wouldn’t think he was forty, would you?…His wife is older. Maybe forty-five…I suppose you’ll be seeing her. She’s entirely different. Quite a different outlook…Of course, everybody’s Protestant here, but Liesbeth Popinga belongs to the strictest sect of all. She’s very conservative…”

“An active woman?”

“Yes, very. She’s head of anything that has to do with charity.”

“You don’t like her?”

“Of course I do…But…It’s difficult to explain…Her father’s a headmaster, while I’m only a farmer’s daughter. Do you understand?…Still, she’s always very sweet and kind.”

“And now?…What happened?”

“We often have lectures here. It’s only a little town, but all the same we like to keep in touch with what’s going on. Last Thursday we had Professor Duclos, from Nancy. You know him, of course.”

She was astonished when Maigret told her he didn’t, for she had assumed the professor to be one of the lights of French civilization.

“A great lawyer. He specializes in criminology and criminal psychology…He talked to us about criminal responsibility, la responsabilité des criminels. Is that right? Stop me if I make mistakes.

“Madame Popinga is president of that society, and the lecturers always stay at her house. Often she invites people there to meet them.

“She did so this time. Not a real party. Just a few friends…There was Professor Duclos, Conrad Popinga and his wife, Wienand, with his wife and children, and me.”

“What time was it?”

“Rather late. About ten o’clock.

“The Popingas’ house is more than half a mile from here, and it’s on the Amsterdiep too…The Amsterdiep—that’s the canal you can see from where you’re sitting…We had tea and cakes, and there was some brandy. Conrad turned on the radio…Oh, I forgot! Any was there too, Madame Popinga’s sister. She’s a lawyer…Conrad wanted to dance, and we rolled up the carpet…The Wienands left early, on account of the children—the little one had started crying. They live next door…Toward midnight Any said she was tired. Then I went and got my bicycle. Conrad did the same. He saw me home.

“My father was waiting for me here…

“It wasn’t till next morning that we heard about it. The news was all over Delfzijl…

“I don’t think it was my fault…When Conrad reached home, he went to put his bicycle away in the shed behind the house. Someone fired a revolver, and he fell. He opened his mouth, but died before he could speak.”

She dried a tear that looked strangely out of place on that smooth cheek, red as a ripe apple.

“Is that all?”

“Yes. Detectives came over from Groningen to help the local police…They came to the conclusion that the shot had been fired from the house…And it seems that the professor was seen coming downstairs with a revolver in his hand…the same revolver that killed Conrad.”

“Professor Jean Duclos?”

“Yes. That’s why they wouldn’t let him go.”

“So at the moment of the crime there was nobody in the house except Madame Popinga, her sister, Any, and Professor Duclos?”

“Ya!”

“And during the evening there had been those three, plus the Wienands, you, and Conrad?”

“There was Cor. I forgot him.”

“Cor?”

“It’s short for Cornélius. He’s a cadet on the training ship, and he used to get private lessons from Conrad.”

“When did he leave?”

“At the same time we did—I mean Conrad and me. He hadn’t brought his bicycle. We walked together for a while, then we jumped on our bicycles and left him…Do you take sugar?”

The tea steamed in the cups. A car had just driven up opposite the three steps that led to the front door. A moment later a man entered the room. He was tall, broad-shouldered, graying, and had a somber face. There was something heavy about him, which accentuated his placidity.

It was the farmer, Liewens. He stood still, waiting for his daughter to introduce him to the visitor. When that was done, he shook Maigret’s hand heartily, but said nothing.

“My father doesn’t speak French.”

She poured a cup of tea for him, which he sipped, still standing. Meanwhile, she told him in Dutch about the calf that had been born.

She must also have told him about Maigret, for he looked at the latter with surprise not unmixed with irony. Then, after stiffly taking his leave, he strode off to the cowshed.

“Have they arrested Professor Duclos?” asked Maigret as soon as he had gone.

“No. He’s at the Hotel Van Hasselt. All they’ve done is keep a policeman there.”

“What have they done with the body?”

“They’ve taken it to Groningen. That’s twenty miles away. A big town, with a university, where Duclos gave a lecture the day before…It’s awful, isn’t it?…We don’t know what to make of it…”

No doubt it was awful. But it was difficult to realize it, probably because of that limpid atmosphere, the comfortable room in which Maigret was sitting, the tea steaming in the cups. In fact, the whole place was the antithesis of awfulness. A little toy town laid gently down by the seashore.

Outside could be seen, rising above the red tile roofs, the funnel and bridge of a big merchantman, unloading cargo. And boats on the Ems gliding slowly down toward the sea.

“Did Conrad often see you home?”

“Whenever I went to his house…He and I were great friends.”

“Wasn’t Madame Popinga jealous?”

That was a chance shot, prompted by the fact that Maigret’s eyes had fallen on Beetje’s inviting bosom.

“Why?”

“I don’t know…Going off like that…at night…”

She laughed, showing a row of healthy teeth.

“It’s quite common in Holland. Cor often saw me home too.”

“And he wasn’t in love with you?”

She didn’t answer yes or no. She giggled. That was the word for it. A little giggle of self-satisfaction.

Her father passed the window carrying the calf as though it were a baby. He stood it on the grass of the meadow in the sun.

The creature swayed on its slender legs, almost fell to its knees, suddenly pranced four or five yards, then stood stock-still.

“Did Conrad ever kiss you?”

Another giggle, but this time she blushed slightly.

“Yes.”

“And Cor?”

This time she was inclined to be evasive. She looked away, hesitated, but finally said:

“Yes. He did too…Why do you ask?”

She had a strange look on her face. Did she expect Maigret to follow suit and kiss her too?

Her father called her. She opened the window, and they talked for a while in Dutch. When she drew her head in it was to say:

“Excuse me…I must go into town to get the mayor. It’s about the calf’s pedigree. He has to be a witness, and it’s very important…Are you going back to Delfzijl?”

They went out together. She took her nickel-plated bicycle by the handlebar and wheeled it along. She walked with a slight swing of her hips, which were already broad as a woman’s.

“What a lovely day to be outside…Poor Conrad will never…The public swimming places open tomorrow. He used to swim every day. He could stay as long as an hour in the water…”

Maigret walked by her side, staring at the ground.